Surf & Surrender

by Riley Edgewood

  A tug of his zipper and his pants slide to the ground, pooling around his ankles. His fingers are pressing into my back, weaving circles across the skin of my shoulders and his breathing's already heavier, like he knows what's coming. He remembers the way I learned his body the same time he learned mine. I know what makes him tick. And he knows I know.

  After one slow lick across his chest, I pull back to ask, "Is it safe?"

  His brow furrows. "Is what safe?"

  "I want to touch you with my mouth, Sawyer." I love the way he swallows at my words. The desire in the quick flare of his nostrils. The way his hands pull at the skin of my back with more force than a moment ago. "I want to wrap my lips around you…but I need to know that it's safe."

  "I…" He rubs a hand over his face, and I nearly pout at the loss of contact between my shoulder blades. "Christ, Quinn. You have nothing to worry about there. But if you feel like you have to reciprocate just because I—"

  "Gave me multiple orgasms?" I arch a brow. "Sweetie. I never barter with my gifts. We can't…fuck," for some reason, saying this makes me blush, like I'm a teenager all over again around him, "but I want to make you feel at least half as good as you made me feel." I can't remember wanting to please someone as much as I do right now. I want my mouth full of Sawyer. Still, after all this time. "Even if you don't deserve it."

  I wonder if he'll have any sort of comeback here, but he only clenches his jaw in the most annoyingly sexy way. Like maybe he wants to tell me his secrets but won't. Yet.

  I'm not giving up, but I'm not pressing it, either. Not now.

  Not when he licks his lips, slowly, and swallows, even slower than the last time, like he's savoring any remaining taste of me in his mouth. Which makes me so freaking hot I nearly don't give a shit about the lack of a condom and beg him to bend me over the table. Or even… Oh, God. Over the years I've had the biggest fantasy of him taking me from behind against a wall…

  With the greatest of restraint, instead, I run my lips across his collarbone. I work my way down his chest and stomach, pausing here and there, balancing myself with my hands along his body, enjoying the salted flavor of his skin. Like sun and sand and ocean. The scents of sage and citrus drift from his pores, as they always have, and begin to bring back memories of years ago. But I shut them from my mind because all I want to focus on is this moment. Sawyer in my hands. Rough concrete under my knees. The muscles of his hamstrings tensing under my palms.

  I slip one hand up to grab his exceptional ass and then I tiptoe my fingers around his hip until they're able to circle his erection, sliding up and then down to his base, and guiding him to my lips. The wetness already waiting at his tip hits my mouth in a tangy, masculine flavor. I wrap my tongue around him and pull him further in. When I glance up, his chest heaves in my peripheral vision, and when we catch eyes, he slams a hand out to grab the wall. He looks almost like he's in pain—a pleasured sort of pain. Which tells me I'm doing exactly what I should be.

  I know how to curl my tongue around the exact spot to make him shudder—right near the tip. And I do it. And he does shudder. Over, and over, and over. I work my hands along him, and under him, and around to his ass, kneading at his skin.

  Licking, licking, sucking.

  Until he loses himself.

  And then gently sucking just a little bit more.

  "Quinn," he moans, the fingers of his free hand tightening through my hair and easing me carefully away from him. "I'm about to fucking fall over."

  I wipe my mouth and lick my lower lip for good measure, standing and tracing my fingertips up his legs and stomach and chest. "Satisfied?"

  "You've never left me any other way."

  "Guess you taught me well, all those years ago. Before you left."

  "Quinn…"

  "Not pressing it," I say. "Let's just enjoy the moment. For now." But I let my hands fall from his chest, balling them by my sides.

  "You were an excellent student back then," he says, smiling as though he didn't notice me slide back a few inches. "But you've picked up a few impressive tricks."

  My first instinct is to stiffen, to defend myself. But a closer look at his face tells me he's not judging me for the past few years. Just complimenting my style. He's pleased. With what he just received, not that I've picked up tricks.

  So I smile back. "You haven't even seen anything yet."

  Then I wish I hadn't said it. I sound like I'm going to give him all the time in the world to discover my talents. And thinking about time… I glance around for a clock, not finding one.

  "Got somewhere to be?" he asks.

  "Brunch with my mom," I admit, wishing it was any day but Wednesday so I could stay.

  But the way he shuts down is shocking, immediate. No trace of his easy grin. No open gaze. No relaxed stance. He just…closes.

  "What? You can't tell me you still hold a grudge against my mom."

  "Yes. I can." His words are short and even though we're less than a foot apart, there's suddenly an entire world between us.

  And it really freaking pisses me off. "You've got nothing to stand on here, buddy. You proved her right."

  "That I wasn't good enough for you?"

  "Jesus. Always so stuck on that." I yank my hair back into a knot. "No. That you'd hurt me. Newsflash, asshole."

  Emotions are fickle, annoying things. Somehow I've gone from completely turned on and wanting his hands all over me, to completely turned on, wanting his hands all over me, and wanting to freaking slap him at the same time. I could probably use a good slap, myself. What was I thinking?

  I shove past him, snatching my purse from the base of the shaping table or whatever the hell it's called, and stalk to the door to the store.

  I pause at the handle. Just for a second. Just to breathe.

  Don't turn around.

  Do not turn around.

  I don't need one last look.

  Then he says, "Forgot your panties."

  I spin around as he's scooping them up from the floor. And of all the damn nerve, he throws them at my face. I catch them, glaring.

  And I throw them right back, just as hard, at his face. "Keep 'em. Something to remember me by. Because this? What just happened? It's the last you're getting from me. Ever."

  He balls them in his fist. I wish it didn't oddly turn me on. I really freaking wish that. He shakes his head. "Good. It shouldn't have happened anyway. Don't go fucking running to Mommy over it, either. Tell me you've at least grown up that much."

  "Fuck you, Sawyer. She was there for me when you weren't. She stuck around while you were off doing whatever the hell you've been doing." I pause to catch my breath again, which is perilously close to hitching, perilously close to letting tears loose. His expression is still shuttered, but his lips are pressed into a straight line and it's the way he used to look when I'd hurt his feelings. But I don't need to know about his feelings. Not after this. "And you know what? Keep your reasons for leaving, too. I don't give a shit anymore. Not about a single thing that has to do with you or where you've been or anything in your future either."

  As far as exit lines go, I'm actually pretty proud of myself. I slam the door open and stride through it.

  Too bad I'm too pissed to bother watching where I'm going, because I collide right into the chest of the second to last person I feel like seeing right now.

  Sawyer's father.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  QUINN

  "MR. CARSON?" I stare at the man in front of me, too shocked to keep my expression neutral.

  His nose is red, almost purple-tinged. He smells like soured liquor. His hair is thin and greasy, more ash than blond, and his eyes—ones that used to rival the brightness of Sawyer's—are faded and bloodshot. And the hands he's using to steady me after I bounced off of him are shaky against my shoulders.

  He's blinking as though he's as shocked as I am. "Quinn?"

  "Hi." I flash as much of a smile as I can manage. Given that I haven't seen him in almos
t four years. And, also, given that I have no underwear on under my dress, and I just gave his son a blowie. But mostly for that first reason. Missing Brock—or now, more formally, Mr. Carson, I guess—hurt almost as much as missing Sawyer. And Jess.

  If I close my eyes I can see him the way he was four years ago. Vibrant, tanned, smiling. Hey, girlie, he used to say after I'd fight with my mom. How about we go out and get an ice cream? Or a pizza. Or…watch Jess's Taekwon-Do lesson. Or…anything fun and easy. That's how things were between us then. Not this. Not this unsteady, awful tension stretching between us now.

  "It's, um… It's really something else to see you," he says.

  Something else, I can't help but note. Not good.

  "You, too." My system's beginning to right itself again, so I step back and his arms drop to his sides. "But I have to go. I'm late." Which actually might be the truth. But either way, I need to get out of here. Away from him. Away from Sawyer.

  Back to real life.

  I tap his arm, all awkward, hating how papery his skin feels. How old. "Have a good day."

  He nods, lost in thought for a second. Or maybe just drunk and confused.

  It hurts, between my ribs and in my belly, to see him like this. He almost always had a beer in hand back when I considered him family, but what I'm seeing now shows that things progressed way beyond casual drinking. This is the remnant of the man I used to know. The one whose arms I cried in when Sawyer and I fought. When we watched a sad movie. Whenever I was upset.

  But he's not a part of my life anymore. And he didn't call me once, either. Not an email. Not a card. Nothing. As though I'd never been a part of his family. I shouldn't care what shape he's in.

  I shouldn't.

  But I do.

  My eyes blur as I make my way through a few swimsuit racks toward the exit. But Sawyer's coworker, Rajesh, intercepts me. "Quinn?"

  "Yeah?" I raise my brows, wondering how he knows my name, but then remember Sawyer saying it when I first walked in.

  Rajesh's brown eyes are friendly, and he leans against a shiny metal rod holding surf brand T-shirts. "Is he alive back there?"

  "Brock?" Barely. The thought almost kills me.

  "No—Sawyer."

  "Lucky enough for him, he is. Excuse me." I shove past him and right out of the Surf Spot. I don't care how friendly this guy's eyes are, he doesn't get to ask me about Sawyer. Especially if his concern is for Sawyer instead of me. Not that I'm having a pity party, but come on.

  I've had enough of today already and it's not even noon.

  And I really need some underwear.

  Unfortunately, my dad's running late to brunch, so for the first twenty minutes it's just me and my mother. Which is basically the worst. At least he's coming. With the way he travels up and down the coast visiting their chain of stores, checking in with branch managers and marketing plans and other business-type things, it's not rare for me to spend Wednesday mornings alone with my mother—and those times are painful.

  Like right now. If I have to answer one more question about Chase, I might shoot myself. I mean, Chase is awesome, but the way my mom's eyes glint with that matchmaker glee—only because of who his parents are—makes me beyond irritated. Which, considering how irritated I already was after my…visit with Sawyer, is saying something.

  At least I've got eggs Benedict on the way.

  "All I'm trying to explain," she goes on, "is that engagements happen faster and faster the older you get."

  "I'm not old. I'm not even out of college." God, where the hell is my dad? "And even if I was, I'm not going to marry Chase. I might not even get married at all." I say it mostly to enjoy the shock on her face. But it might be true. Only one person's ever made me think along those lines and, well… That's not going to happen.

  As if on cue, my dad arrives, greeting us both with quick pecks on the cheeks. He grabs a seat between us. "What'd I miss, girls?"

  "Oh, you know. The usual. Mom's trying to marry me off before I'm twenty-five."

  My mom sighs. "I ordered you the salmon and asparagus, Jack. I hope your meeting went well?" When he nods she offers him a rare, real smile. He's the only one who ever gets them. I think it's because he's the only person in her life who knew her growing up, so she knows he understands her in a way nobody else ever will. She cut off anyone else who even knew she had a childhood. I've never understood why, and she never speaks of it with more than passing allusions. But it's the tiny moments between them, when she shows genuine affection, that make me love her. Because it's nice to know she's capable of emotion.

  Then her attention's back on me. "Don't be so quick to dismiss the possibility, sweetie. He has a good family, and I'm sure they'd be happy to ensure their son settles down faster than that daughter of theirs."

  "That daughter of theirs is pre-law. And she sounds awesome," I say.

  "From what I hear," my mom lowers her voice like she's some co-conspirator, "she's given them quite a few reasons to worry lately."

  "Yeah. Horrible things. Like actually caring about what goes on in the world outside the palace she grew up in." I don't know Chase's sister, but I'm not going to sit here and let my mom tear her down.

  "Headstrong girls grow into fine young women," my father says, patting my hand like he's giving me a compliment. Which, I guess, he is?

  "Isn't gossiping beneath you?" I ask my mom, my tone about as prim and proper as it's ever been. Totally faked, but I guarantee she doesn't realize it. "Really, Mother. Think of the example you're setting. How ever will I grow into a fine young woman?"

  And she actually looks embarrassed, like rather than believing she shouldn't gossip because it's mean, she believes it should be below her. I want to shake my head. I want to tell her that I was basically arrested last night—though it'll be more fun to let her hear that from one of her upper-class friends, so I hold back.

  I want to tell her I left a pair of panties with Sawyer right before I came here.

  I won't though. Because his stupid little barb about running to Mommy really stung. Plus, I don't think I could ever say it in front of my dad. Even if he'd probably just smile blandly and pretend it didn't bother him.

  I do wonder if my parents have heard Sawyer's back in town. The Outer Banks is a big area, but they—well, really, she manages to find out everything there is to know about anyone who's anyone. Not that she'd consider Sawyer anyone.

  Which pisses me off more.

  "I heard someone talking about Sawyer the other day," I say, unable to keep from mentioning him. Because I'm itching to pick a fight. Over a guy I don't even like.

  Don't even want to like, anyway.

  My mom looks at my dad and back to me. "Well, there's a name from the past. I can't imagine why he came up."

  Really, Mother? He broke my heart—who cares how much time has passed?—yet you find it surprising that he'd ever come up? I come so close to telling her where I just came from. Really, really close.

  "He…was only mentioned in passing," I mumble, chickening out. "I didn't really pay attention."

  "There's a family to stay away from if there ever was one," she says, pausing to let the waiter disperse our plates as brunch arrives. "Chase's family, however, is much better. They—"

  "Please, just stop," I say, silently fuming that she's so quick to toss off the Carsons, silently fuming that I can't blame her because she helped pick up the pieces they left me in. Silently fuming that I still want to defend them regardless of what happened four years ago. Regardless of the fact they don't deserve it.

  The thing is, my mom never liked the Carsons, not from the day she discovered I was with Sawyer. Because she's a damn snob. But I won't call her on her pretension because I believe that—in this one instance—her heart's in the right place. She really was there for me when Sawyer wasn't. She patted my back while I cried so hard I gave myself a migraine. And again the next week. And in the months after… She saw how devastated I was and even if she wasn't so stuck up, she'd want me
to stay away from them now because of how badly they hurt me in the past. However, I can at least say this much: "I'm not going to date Chase. I don't care who his parents are."

  My mom studies me, so disappointed. "What exactly is it that you have against people of society?"

  "You mean people who are rich? Because I'm pretty sure we're all people of society." I want to scream at her. I keep it in, though. For now. "I have nothing against wealthy people. But I'm not going to date someone just because his parents can wipe their asses with hundred-dollar bills." Damn. I was so close to no snark this time.

  "I'm more concerned you'll end up with someone because they're poor just to drive me crazy."

  "Girls," my father says. "Let's take a—"

  "Are you listening to yourself?" I glare at my mom. "I wouldn't date someone to get at you—you're the farthest thing from my mind when I…" I stop myself from saying when I let someone into my pants, but just barely. And only for my dad's sake.

  "Poor people are lazy." My mom whispers, but she pushes her words through her mouth so sharply they hit me like a yell. "They're bad with money, and they look for easy schemes. The welfare rate is—"

  "You used to be poor," I shoot back to shut her up because holy hell, if she continues going down the path she is, I may never speak to her again. "We all did."

  Her mouth parts. Shuts. Parts again. "And look at us now. I only say those things for their own good."

  "For whose own good?" I don't understand—not that I ever follow her logic, but this is…something else. Maybe it's hard to think through how disgusted I am. "Poor people?"

  "Lillian," my father says, warning in his tone. He pats her hand this time. "Just because people of…our stature were unkind to you in the past doesn't mean you need to repeat their actions."

  My mother rolls her eyes so hard I almost don't notice the way she flips her hand under his so they can twine fingers—just for a moment before she pulls away. Every once in a while these sweet little things slip through and make me reevaluate her. Until she says things like, "You're wrong, Jack. I pushed myself higher, I pushed us higher, because of the way we were snubbed. Those people made me stronger. And perhaps my own attitude will give others the drive to better themselves as well."